by M. Walsh
“It’s Evelyn Clock,” he said, his voice drifting out like that of a dying man. After skimming the note, he added, “She wants to meet.”
As if in response, thunder rumbled. Arkady made a face like he smelled something awful. Audra, however, lit up. “She does?” she said. “When? Where?”
“Few days from now,” he said, reading the letter. “Some inn. During the fights at Malison Coliseum. She says it’ll be easier to meet in secret then. She says we ‘need’ to talk.”
“About what..?” Arkady asked.
“I don’t even want to know,” he said, crumpling the paper.
“What are you talking about? Lee, don’t you see? This is our chance!”
“Chance for what?”
“This is the final step!” she said. “This is how we take down Clock once and for all!”
“I am not screwing around with Sebastian Clock’s wife.”
“What? No, Lee, listen,” she said, sitting beside him. “The Goblins are fighting the Wraiths, someone tried to assassinate Gash … it’s coming together. All we have to do is get leverage on Clock, then play on Gash’s paranoia, and make them fight amongst themselves. The wife is the key.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Audra,” he said. “I think we should close up shop.”
“Come on,” she said, kneeling in front of him. “We can still win this. We are so close.”
“What if it’s a trap? What if she’s setting me up?”
“For what? For who? If Clock or Gash wanted you dead right now, why would they bother with this?” She leaned in and looked him in the eye. “The Tombs weren’t a setback. Not for us. We got them where we want them. They’re running in circles, chasing shadows, and fighting each other. We’re one step away from getting what we want. Evelyn Clock is that step.”
He turned to Arkady, almost hoping he’d disagree. Instead he shrugged and made a noncommittal noise while tilting his head back and forth.
“Let’s at least wait,” Audra said. “Lady Clock said she wants to meet in a few days, right? If things stay cool and no one makes a move against us, what’s the harm in going?”
This time she turned to Arkady, and he offered the same shrugging head tilt. “It’s up to you, boss,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want to do.”
Krutch groaned and lied flat on the bed. He still thought they should take the remaining gold and ditch town. But was that just the old Krutch thinking? The one who scurried away from danger? Did he want to be that guy or not?
“We’ll lay low until the fights,” he said. “Assuming Clock and Gash don’t send people to kill us between now and then, maybe I’ll go see Evelyn Clock and … I don’t know.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “In the meantime, Arkady, I think we should buy some horses in case we need to make a quick getaway.”
“That’s good thinking, boss. I’ll get right on that.”
“And if I meet Evelyn,” he said to Audra, feeling tired. “I’ll figure something out, I guess.”
“You can do this, Lee,” Audra whispered, that glint sparkling in her eyes like a lit fuse. “You know what to do.”
37
Cassie spent much of the night and following morning crying in her room. Seria was with her, but her consolations did little. Lock tried to work up the nerve to talk to his sister, but the idea of her desperate, pleading eyes was too much for him. Instead, he focused on helping Troa pack.
Deck said nothing. He kept to himself, practicing with his sword outside all morning. As far as Lock knew, he never even considered trying to talk to Cassie. She probably wouldn’t have it, but he could at least make the attempt.
It was getting very hard for Lock to not hate his brother.
He looked out the windows, expecting more assassins or mages or maybe even a monster, but all seemed quiet. If more people were coming for the Gauntlet, they were picking their moment. That made him more nervous about sending Cassie off, despite Troa’s assurances. For all he knew, they were waiting for her.
The tension in his gut increased when the time came for them to leave. Cassie finally agreed to go, although Lock wondered if it was acceptance or surrender.
He and Seria rode with them to Aster’s gate while Deck remained at the house. Cassie didn’t say a word the entire time. Her eyes were dry, but dark. Sullen anger had settled upon her, and Lock feared it might be a while before she spoke to him again. Every time she turned to him, he gave her a sympathetic look, saying, “I’m sorry,” with his eyes.
He didn’t know if he got through to her, but it was more than Deck had gotten when they left the house. She wouldn’t even look at their brother, and if it was going to be a long time before she spoke to Lock, it would be longer before she came close to forgiving Deck.
Moving to Graylands was supposed to be a fresh start, he thought. But not like this.
* * *
When they left the house, Deck stood by the front gate and watched them ride into town. It was another glorious summer day in Aster, but the warmth and shining sun did nothing for him. He felt like he wore a terrible weight around his neck. He wanted to believe the feeling in his stomach was the expectation another attack was coming, but the truth was—as reluctant he might be to admit it—he hated that Cassie hated him.
He had never been as close to his youngest sibling as Lock, but he always cared about her. She acted more spoiled than he would have preferred, and he didn’t share her interest in luxury or court, but that never stopped him from loving her—even if he did perhaps take her for granted.
He remembered her face the night before—hearing her plead with Lock not to send her off. He’d never admit it to anyone, not even to himself, but the reason he kept his eyes on the floor the whole time was because he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. He hated imagining what she must think of him.
He turned back toward the house, when a deep voice said, “Good morning, Mr. Synclaire.”
Behind him was a tall man with dark skin. He was an imposing figure wearing a dark blue overcoat despite the heat. His hair was cut short, and a thinly trimmed beard wrapped around his chin. Upon seeing him, Deck instinctively reached for his sword.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” the man said. “My name is Vincent Dune. I came to talk.”
“About what..?”
Dune shot him a hard look that gave even Deck a chill. “I think you know exactly what.”
A desperate fury sparked in his gut. Another one had found them. Another had come to his home. “Like hell! If you want to—”
“I only wish to talk, Mr. Synclaire,” Dune said, his voice even. “I figured, with your brother, sister, and Eldér companions away at the moment, now would be the best time.”
“You’re not coming into my home!”
Dune sighed. “This needn’t be difficult. I think it would be easier for all parties if you just cooperate.”
“Don’t you threaten me!”
“I was not threatening you.” Dune sighed again—this time sounding more agitated. “Perhaps I should wait for your brother instead? Would he be more reasonable?”
Deck reined in his temper. Whatever this Vincent Dune wanted or represented, acting like a child itching for a fight wasn’t helping. He took a breath and managed a gambler’s face.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I just wasn’t expecting to find one of you outside my house.”
“An error, Mr. Synclaire,” said Dune. “With all due respect, if you went into this not expecting certain interested parties to find their way to your doorstep, you should never have gotten involved.”
He maintained his straight face, but Deck was grinding his teeth. Dune wasn’t wrong, but he hated being talked down to. “I’ve lost count of how many people have pointed that out to me.”
Fists clenched, he chose to swallow this bitter pill and led Dune to the house. The walk up the pathway felt longer than it really was, and there was a part of him that considered trying to fight right there. He resiste
d and admitted to himself he needed to be smarter from now on.
Upon entering and seeing the state of the house, Dune said, “I see I’m not the first to come knocking. Were these mages?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We’ll talk in the back.”
He led him to the back door, making sure Dune went ahead of him. Dune said nothing and walked along, his face stoic and unreadable. Watching him, Deck realized this was no mere hired goon. He was a man who knew what he was doing and had no fear.
Dune stepped outside onto the back terrace and removed his coat, revealing a curved falchion with an extendable blade strapped to his belt. Hanging the coat over one of the chairs, he sat down and folded his hands on his chest.
He looked at Deck and said, “Won’t you sit? It’s your house.”
Deck’s fists were still clenched. He felt off guard and tense. His shoulder was throbbing in pain and a headache came.
He knew where the Gauntlet was. They were in his house. In a short while, Lock and Seria would return. And yet he felt as though he had no hand. He felt small and impotent against this new player. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to and didn’t care for in the slightest.
“How did you find me?” he asked, sitting down.
“Some time ago,” said Dune. “You and your Eldér friend fought a group of trackers, yes? There actually were five. The last one returned to Gain, where he found me. Once I knew which direction to go, it wasn’t hard to track you here. And once I reached Aster, it didn’t take long to hear about the heroic Synclaire boys.”
Deck frowned and realized why he felt so off balance around this man. Vincent Dune, whoever he was, was a professional and now this professional was educating him in how easily he’d been found and figured out.
I’m an amateur, he thought. And he knows it.
“The mages, you may have guessed, were disciples of Roderick Bane,” Dune continued. “Apparently, they discovered the Gauntlet and were planning to … whatever those freaks do. However, they were intercepted and the Gauntlet was stolen. It was to be exchanged to men working for the recently deceased Dean Carmine. Have you heard of him?”
Deck shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. Carmine was acting on behalf of a man named Jonathon Gash. He’s the one who wants the Gauntlet.”
“And now you’re here on Gash’s behalf, right?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Dune. “Mr. Synclaire, I come from the city of Seba—perhaps you know of it? Good. After Carmine’s demise, my employer—who is an associate of Jonathon Gash—became suspicious. I was sent to investigate.”
“And what does your boss want with the Gauntlet?”
“He doesn’t know the Gauntlet is the prize. Yet.”
“So if your boss doesn’t know about the Gauntlet,” said Deck. “Why are you here?”
“Don’t be naïve, Mr. Synclaire.”
To that, Deck said nothing. He supposed it didn’t matter who wanted the Gauntlet or why. It was a source of power, and for many, that was reason enough.
“You need to give me the Gauntlet,” Dune said. “It’ll be better for everyone—your family especially—if you hand it over.”
“I don’t have it,” he replied.
“I’m sure you’ve hidden it somewhere. You would be wise to give it up.”
“Look Mister … Dune, is it..? I’ll admit, I have not played this game as well as I could have—as you and everyone else I know have helpfully pointed out to me. But that aside, why should I be so quick to hand over an evil artifact of supposedly great power to murderers and assassins?”
Dune’s face was frozen and gave no hint to the thoughts going on behind those eyes. “Mr. Synclaire, I see you fancy yourself some kind of hero. You believe the conflict over this Gauntlet is some kind of struggle between the forces of good and evil. I assure you, that line of thinking will only bring more pain to you and your family than it already has.”
“Let’s make one thing clear,” Deck said, his voice turning cold. “If you threaten me or my family in my house one more time, you better pray you’re better with that sword of yours than I am with mine.”
“I don’t make threats,” said Dune, his voice still calm and even. “I only state facts.”
“Very intimidating,” he said, snorting. “You know what—tell me, if this isn’t a clash between good and evil, what is it? I do know of Seba, Mr. Dune, and I’m willing to wager neither your employer, nor this Gash should be trusted with the magic weapon of an evil sorcerer.”
“Neither my employer, nor Jonathon Gash … nor myself … would ever claim to be Seraphim. We are men of ambition who conduct in unsavory business to get what we desire. There’s no denying that. But we are hardly ‘evil.’ We are not dark lords communing with the Black. We don’t command hordes of demons. And we don’t have ambitions to conquer the world or wage war on the gods.
“We’re just men. And we would use Bane’s Gauntlet in a manner that might behoove us.” He scratched his nose and sighed. “The Gauntlet might not even be useful. As I said, none of us are masters of the dark arts. It might be useless to us.”
“You’re not convincing me,” Deck said.
“My point is: better the Gauntlet end up in the hands of my employer who is not some dark lord out to conquer the world than … the alternative.” He paused to let that sink in. “You’ve already met some of them. There are dark forces at work, Mr. Synclaire. I assure you there are more of Bane’s disciples out there, and they will find you, too. And they are the sort you most certainly don’t want gaining possession of it.”
“You seem to be operating under the assumption I can’t keep it safe,” said Deck, frowning.
“You can’t.” Seeing the expression that brought to Deck’s face, he continued, “Again, I only state facts. Aside from the mages, Jonathon Gash has gone to great lengths to gain possession of this Gauntlet. He means to use it against my employer for power in Seba. Everything he has is riding on it. Do you believe for one moment he will not use the full extent of his power to get it? Do you want a legion of mercenaries, assassins, and anything else Gash can muster bearing down on you and your home?”
Deck said nothing.
“My employer is a far more ruthless man than Jonathon Gash. If and when he discovers Bane’s Gauntlet is the prize … if and when he realizes his chief rival in Seba is using everything in his arsenal to get it …” Dune paused and raised his eyebrows, as if the conclusion was obvious.
Deck still could say nothing.
“You are a brave man, Mr. Synclaire, and your desire to keep the Gauntlet from the hands of us—erm—‘bad guys’ is admirable. But be practical. This is a fight you won’t win, and all you’ll bring is doom to your family.”
Deck kept his eyes locked on the ground. He was grimacing, and his fists were clenched. He felt his blood boiling in his veins, and it took every ounce of his self-control to keep from lunging across the table and throttling the man sitting across from him.
“I know the Gauntlet is hidden,” Dune said, standing up. “You can find me in town. I did not come alone. I would suggest you make haste—it won’t be long before Gash doubles his efforts if he hasn’t already.” He put his coat on and started toward the door. “It’s for the best. I promise you: there is far worse out there than me.”
* * *
It was called the Roadside Inn—an unimaginative, but accurate name. It was the only place that offered beds, food, and alcohol for miles in any direction. A pit-stop between towns, nothing more. It was owned by an overweight, middle-aged man named Tooney and manned by his son and daughter—neither of whom were much to look at.
For much of their lives they lived in this rickety shack, catering to the drifters and pilgrims coming and going. So inconspicuous, it went unnoticed by marauders and thieves. Even the worst of bandits didn’t think the place was worth terrorizing. And so the Roadside Inn went about its business, day and night, nestled in the woods and unbothered by
the rest of Graylands.
And then the Jackal arrived.
He went inside to find Tooney tending the bar and the son and daughter serving a handful of patrons. The inn was sleepy and seemed almost quaint. The Jackal stood at the doorway, surveying the scene and debating whether he should be nice or not. The thought of breezing by and letting the inn be was amusing in its own way. None of them would know how close to death they came.
But, as was often the case with the Jackal, the prospect of death and violence proved more enticing. He said nothing—made no sign of intention or even emotion. He strolled up to the nearest man, unsheathed his claws, and plunged them into the man’s throat.
Blood sprayed on the table in front of him. The rest of the people didn’t react at first—too stunned by the sudden and unprovoked attack. The Jackal took that time to slash the face of another patron. This one didn’t die right away—his face reduced to a mangled mess of cut flesh and pouring blood.
His scream snapped the rest of the inn into action. Of the remaining three patrons, only one believed himself a fighter. He drew a dirk and charged, but the Jackal made short work of him. His claws sunk into the fighter’s gut like knives into tender meat.
One man squealed and attempted to run around him to the door. The Jackal grinned and cut him off—slicing at the legs and tearing an upward slash at the man’s face. Blood and bits of flesh hit the ceiling, and his victim fell to the floor with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Tooney and his children were huddled by the bar. The last patron was standing in the back, his hands held up. He was talking, trying to reason and plead, but the Jackal didn’t listen. The man screamed like a woman before he died.
Tooney’s son was next, leaving the daughter and the man himself. Tooney held his weeping daughter to his chest, begging for mercy. If not for both of them, then his daughter at least. The Jackal took a moment to think.
Should he spare one? Leave one alive to tell the tale and spread his legend? But if so, which one? He imagined the heartbreak and horror of leaving Tooney alive with his dead children at his feet, and it made him laugh. He pictured the fat man forever lamenting his dear departed offspring to any and all future patrons of the Roadside Inn.